The Phone Call Part III
by Milo Pressman
Summary: Jack makes a purchase and keeps a promise.


PART III  
  
He headed towards the bar, just driving, taking her advice and trying not to think and analyze it all out, just enjoying the feeling of being relieved. The evening had gone so much better than he could have ever imagined. They could still talk to each other, at least about some things. He'd even managed to talk to her about Claudia. What was it Kate had said? That he'd figure it out. She wasn't just saying it, either. Of course, she had no idea what was involved – what was he going to do, steal a helicopter? But the confidence that she had in him, that she still had in him, despite everything. And she seemed to have enjoyed seeing him, too. At least she didn't hate him. She hadn't forgotten.  
  
And when he kissed her. God, why had he stopped? He was aroused just thinking about it, like he was a teenager again; back full circle to the way he'd felt before he called her, in the office. And it had been so long since he'd had a conversation, an honest conversation, with anyone.  
  
Well, wait a minute. His brain stopped him. Honest? What, exactly, are you doing now? Going for "shaving cream"?? Where are you going? And what are you going to do when you get there? Ok, so you won't have a beer when you get "home". You're just going to go and stick a needle in your arm.  
  
It didn't make the rest of it go away, exactly, but he started thinking more about what he hadn't told her than about what he had. And that made him admit that, if anything, Claudia was the easy issue to talk about, and the rest of it was worse, much worse.  
  
And why was he so anxious to talk to her now anyway? Did he really want them to get back together? Was that even a remote possibility? Did he think they could be "just friends"? Not if his reaction to "Richard the stockbroker" was any gauge. So what was all this interest for? So they could go through it all again, like the last time? So he could turn around and walk away from her again? And who would she be better off with? This guy, or some other guy, or "Jack, the drug addict"? Even up against a player to be named later, this was a no-brainer, he lost; it wasn't even a close decision.  
  
He parked the SUV in the darkness down the street from the bar and stared the truth he most feared in the face. It wasn't connected to Kate. He was thinking about her right now to avoid thinking about this other problem. Ramon was not going to talk. For almost three weeks he'd been pretending and hoping that particular little reality would go away. But it wouldn't stay hidden any longer. It didn't matter if he and Chase went up to that prison every day for the next month or for the next six months. He knew Ramon like he used to know himself. And that meant that what he was going to do now, and what he had done...he closed his eyes, willing those thoughts to stay back a little longer.  
  
He slipped his badge into the glove compartment and locked it. Inside he caught the bar tender's eye and got the nod to head to the room in the back. He told the guys at the door he was packing, reached behind, unclipped his gun and handed it over. They didn't bother to pat him down. Not a good sign; they recognized him as a regular. They just waited for him to reach down and get the second gun that was strapped to his ankle, and to reach into his jacket pocket for the halo knife.  
  
Inside he told them what he wanted and counted out ten crisp, new hundred dollar bills, laying them on the table. He preferred to get it in liquid form, less of a hassle, but that was hard to find so he had to settle for the powder. They might have the liquid in a couple of weeks, he should check back.  
  
"'Till the next time" the guy at the desk said, smiling as if they were through .  
"Not so fast" said Jack. "I'm paying this kind of money, I want to know what I'm buying." The guy nodded. This was fair. He signaled to one of the other men who was just standing around, and the second one quickly set up a short line for Jack on a piece of glass that was laying on the top of the table.  
  
Jack rolled another bill, leaned over and snorted half the line. Then he did it again into the other side. The hit took a second or two, but he could definitely feel it starting to kick in along the way. It felt like it traveled right from his eyeballs to the back of his brain, the way you feel a shot of single malt as it travels down, increasing the anticipation of the glow once it hit your stomach. It was a good thing he'd tested it. It was stronger, less diluted by powdered milk or whatever they were using, than what he was used to. He'd have to be careful until his body made the adjustment. The guy behind the table smiled again.  
  
"Just trying to keep our customers satisfied". Jack had made him a happy guy. He'd bought almost twenty percent more than he had the last time, which meant that if he wasn't turning some of it over retail, he was using more. They always told themselves they were buying more so there'd be a longer time between shopping trips, especially these professional guys, but he knew how that went. Jack would be back in a week, ten days tops.  
  
"Come back soon."  
  
On the way back through the bar Jack noticed a girl he hadn't seen on the way in. She looked at him and smiled. Was it the one he'd gone upstairs with the last time? She hadn't been that bad and for a split second he thought "Why not?" but then he remembered and smiled at her and kept moving. She turned and started talking to somebody else at the bar. She wasn't broken hearted at the brush off but it was another bad sign. She remembered him too. Definitely time to make a change.  
  
He pulled out carefully. He'd have to really watch his driving now. The last thing he needed was being pulled over with a blood alcohol of, what, .06 or .08, and the pupils in his eyes half dilated because he had a major buzz on and a thousand dollars worth of heroin in the car. Even his badge wouldn't get him out of that kind of trouble.  
A thought came to him from out of nowhere as he headed "home". Or maybe it was because he was high. Did Kate know, he wondered idly, that when you killed someone with a bullet to the head that sometimes...that was why it was important to stand back a bit...you wanted to angle the bullet down...another definition of "blowback". And he'd done that for Ramon and for Hector, what was the count up to now? He'd lost track after twelve because he didn't want to know the real number.  
  
And he couldn't even blame this mess on someone from Langley or Division. No, he was the author of this particular debacle. He was the one who, realizing that the drug dealers lead back directly to the terrorists, had identified the Salazar cartel for infiltration, had sold the idea up the food chain in CTU, and then to the DEA. He was the one who figured out the best way to approach it, how long it would take to gain their confidence, what the cover should be, how to maintain communications – his hand was on it all. He knew what the Salazars did that they called "just business" and he knew, going in, what the guy they put inside would be doing on a day-to-day basis. He knew. And he still claimed the job for himself.  
  
He knew it would be the end for him and Kate. And the look on her face when she realized that this was not some assignment that had come down from on high, but was his brainchild, his way of making his exit. She'd said congratulations, he'd figured out one way to solve two problems. He could use it as an excuse to move out and he could get himself killed, both at the same time, how economical. She was furious but she was also deeply, deeply hurt because he was walking away from the life they had together and from their love for each other. Just walking away.  
  
He pulled into the parking garage underneath his building. She was right; he was exhausted. He couldn't shut his mind down anymore on his own. Everything kept swirling around in a confusing muddle of random thoughts and emotions and things from the past and things that were happening right now and he couldn't keep it straight anymore, what emotion belonged with which thought and what the difference was between them anyway. And underneath it all was the fear, like the proverbial 800 lb. gorilla in the room that nobody would talk about, the fear that he'd never get Ramon to talk and so all of it, all of it, had been a total and complete waste. And on top of it all he still had to keep his secrets to himself and play them all...Kim and Tony and Michelle and that jerk Chapelle and now Kate too. He was still undercover and he'd be that way no matter where he was. Not an iota of honesty or truth in anything he said or did. Just like a junkie.  
  
He went upstairs, let himself in, turned on a light, got a spoon, walked quickly over to the bed, to the nightstand, and sat down, pulling the bag out of his jacket. His hands were trembling and he needed to fix in the worst way. He'd just waited too long, it was too long, even after the line he'd run in the bar, he hadn't paid attention to what his body was telling him. He couldn't last for twelve hours anymore; ten was more like it. The jacket and tie and shirt were off, he kicked his shoes off and got to work. Heating the powder in the spoon until it melted and drawing it up into the syringe and making sure there weren't any air bubbles, wrapping his arm and then finding the vein and easing it in and sending it home.  
  
The feeling of lightness and the way the tension in his shoulders just disappeared, like falling asleep in a hammock or on the beach, lying in the sun, just floating along, was almost immediate. He leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. No thoughts, no problems very soon, just drifting and quiet. No struggle to keep the things he didn't want to think about or remember at bay and under control. He could have a nice, dreamless sleep now, nothing to think about or worry about or regret. His last conscious thought was that at least he'd done what he'd promised Kate he'd do. 


End file.
